Vision Correction
by radialarch
Summary: In which there is a brief argument over a skull. / S/J-ish. Fluff. One-shot.


**Title:** Vision Correction

**Disclaimer:** Sadly, not mine. No profit is being made, et cetera.

**Spoilers:** None.

**Pairings:** "Sherlock and John being comfortably domestic" is the idea.

**Rating:** K+

**Warnings:** None.

**Wordcount:** 800

**Summary:** In which there is a brief argument over a skull.

_A/N: Inspired by Kitkat McRaebs's suggested dialogue:  
>"I don't want the skull staring at me."<br>"But the skull is my friend."_

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><p>It was a Saturday morning in 221B Baker Street, and the flat was very quiet. This was mostly due to the fact that Sherlock Holmes was not there. Sherlock had gotten a text and bounded out the door an hour ago—so quickly that John had had to remind him to put on clothes instead of dashing off in just his dressing gown. John wasn't entirely sure where he'd gone. Sherlock's only explanation had been an energetic "Eyes!", and John thought he might have preferred <em>not<em> knowing that much.

Having just finished writing up their latest case, John closed his laptop and looked around the flat. He frowned. There were clothes everywhere. Why on earth did Sherlock need _three _pairs of identical shoes scattered about the sofa? The looming pile of take-away boxes wasn't growing any smaller, either, and those definitely looked like bloodstains on the cushion.

"All right," he muttered to himself. "Cleaning it is."

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><p>The lock clicked, letting the door swing open.<p>

"Oh, you're back." John looked up from his paper. "Did you do...well, whatever it is that you went to do?"

"Of course. A simple matter of vision correction. Hardly interesting." Sherlock sounded vaguely insulted at the question. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the room. "You've been cleaning. Why have you been cleaning?"

"We talked about this, Sherlock, remember? You can't just leave all your stuff on the floor, it's ridiculous!"

"Cleaning is unnecessary. I knew precisely where everything was, and now I'll have to actually look for them—" Sherlock froze, his gaze fixed somewhere over John's shoulder. Abruptly, he spun around and stalked toward his bedroom.

"Sherlock?" John could only hear scuffling sounds emerging from the open door. "Are you okay?"

No reply. John wondered if it was time to be worried. No, not yet. Scuffling was rather reasonable, for Sherlock; gunshots, now _those_ were worrying.

Just then Sherlock whipped into the living room brandishing a—er, _the_—skull. (Did Sherlock own more than one skull? John really hoped not.) Setting it gently on the mantelpiece, he turned accusingly toward John. "You put away my skull." His tone was so wounded that John couldn't repress his smile. Not that he should have bothered—Sherlock would have noticed either way.

"Skulls don't belong on the mantelpiece, Sherlock." And that was another entry on the list of _Things John Didn't Think Was Necessary To Tell Sherlock Holmes, Except They Were, Apparently_. That list was getting longer every day.

"You've never minded before."

Well, that was—true. But that wasn't to say that it was _odd_ to care now. It probably just meant that John was becoming saner. Was that how living with Sherlock worked? Did flatmates just gradually recover their sanity until they fled? How many previous flatmates had the man had, anyway?

He _really_ had to stop thinking like this.

"Well, you know—" John waved casually, trying to dismiss the issue. "It's a _skull_. It was just—"

"Yes?" Sherlock's voice was too interested now, the entirety of his focus on John. Those eyes were impossibly intense. It was unnerving.

"Tea!" John blurted out. "I'm going to make tea. Do you want some?"

"Not now." Before John could edge into the kitchen, Sherlock reached out to grab his arm. His grip was surprisingly strong for a man who refused to eat for hours when it was distracting. "Tell me about the skull, John."

John gave up. "It was staring at me," he mumbled. "I didn't like it."

"You put away my skull," Sherlock started incredulously, "because it was staring at you."

"Yes, Sherlock." John wrenched his arm out of Sherlock's grasp and glared at him sternly. "I don't want the skull staring at me."

"But the skull is my friend!"

The reply was so unexpected that John burst out laughing. "I thought you didn't do friends," he said, after he recovered his breath.

"Well." The concession was sulky. "I might have been a bit upset at the time."

"A bit?"

"Fine. More than a bit."

"So the skull is your friend," John mused. "Why can't it be your friend in your own room?"

Sherlock stared at John as if _he_ were the one being unreasonable. "John, how often do I use my room?"

Now that John thought about it, Sherlock's room _was_ awfully dusty. Sherlock seemed to fluctuate between lying on the sofa half-dressed and sitting on the sofa fully dressed. "But I live here too, you know. And _I_ don't want the skull being your friend on the mantelpiece, all...staring."

"Oh!" A triumphant look came over Sherlock's face. "I have the perfect solution." And with that he reached into his pocket, grinning wildly.

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><p>The next time DI Lestrade raided 221B, he found the skull still on the mantelpiece, wearing sunglasses.<p>

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><p><em>Review? They're inspiring!<em>


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